The light shelter tent, robes, and sleeping bags were removed from the sleds, and O'Brien offered to help.
"Set ut up clost ag'in' th' igloo," he said, "an' Oi'll tunnel a hole t'rough th' soide, an' tonight we kin lay an' plot loike Fenians, an' th' ar-risthocracy here'll think we're sound ashlape dhreamin' av malamute mulligan, an' dog's liver fried in ile."
The tent was quickly set up and Connie was about to loosen the lashings of the grub pack.
"How much grub hav' ye got?" asked the Irishman.
"We got a right smaht of grub, except fo' th' dawgs," answered Waseche.
"Don't uncover ut, thin," warned O'Brien. "Jist tilt yer tarp a bit an' pull out enough f'r th' suppher. They won't bother-r th' outfit none—th' owld man towld um to lave hands off an' they'd divide the whole shebang afther th' dance."
"Yo' don't say," drawled Waseche. "Grandpa's a generous heahted ol' pahty, ain't he! D'yo' reckon we-all w'd be in on th' divvy, oah do we jest furnish the outfit?"
O'Brien grinned:
"Ye'd fare same as th' rist," he said. "Sharre an' shar-re aloike is th' rule here. Sur-re, they're socialists—ondly they don't know ut."
"Yo' say they won't let yo' get away from heah? What do they want of yo'—an' what do they want of us? Afteh they've et the dawgs an' divided the outfit, looks like they'd be glad to get rid of us."